


The Way We Grow Up

by Th13f0fH0p3



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th13f0fH0p3/pseuds/Th13f0fH0p3
Summary: Rose Lalonde contemplates her life and how it got her spinning endlessly in a black void.





	1. Prolouge

You’ve never been one for reading people very well, and it seems that this time is no different. It’s resulted, perhaps, in the worst loss of your life, which is saying something, you suppose, because you lost your mother in a way that suggests it was at least partially your fault. You didn’t know your mother that well, so you guess that’s why it wasn’t as bad when you lost her as losing her, even if she’s not dead, feels like it’s going to kill you. Even if she’s not dead, you have horribly fucked up any chance you ever had with her, not that you thought you had one, although apparently you did, before, of course, you fucked it up. By fucking it up, you mean that you did something so stupid, so radically stupid, that you doubt you’ll ever wake again.

So here you are, sitting in the middle of the fucking void, limbo, whatever, just sort of floating, legs crossed just slowly floating and spinning in the air. It’s not a particularly horrible existence, you suppose, uncrossing your legs and spreading out eagle like. You’re not being tortured or anything, but then again, you haven’t had actual human contact in what is most likely literally years. You don’t age here, you’re still in the sixteen year old body you were in when you got here. Same pale skin, same platinum blonde hair, same rolls on your stomach, same clothing, same self loathing. Which brings you back to your biggest loss, who you’ve been thinking about for a long, long time, and have only figured out recently after studying your memories intensely, that she had a crush on you or she liked you or whatever. The point is, she was romantically interested in you, and you had no. Fucking. Clue.

You like to pride yourself, or used to when it mattered, on your ability to figure out what made people tick, finding out what buttons to push to get what you wanted. However, you were always sort of insensitive and didn’t really care what they felt during or afterwards, which is why, you suppose, you never were good at figuring out what people felt. You had enough trouble figuring out what you felt on your own, and you didn’t need someone else’s feelings on your plate too. Nowadays, you have a gigantic fucking plate, since sleep is meaningless, you’re constantly hungry and feel like you’re starving nonstop but won’t die, and as far as you know there is no gravity. There’s nothing to do, is what you mean, nothing to do but think as to how bad you’ve fucked up. Why you fucked up. How you could’ve not of fucked up. A lot of things, really, having to do with you. And her. You liked her, you did, but you were always sort of a coward, and like most things, you never realized that the bubbly, happy feeling in your chest when you were around her was love. Because she was perfectly deserving of it, not that she was perfect. No, she had her flaws, you know. She held grudges for too long and was a little too unforgiving, but she was magnificent. And you fucked it up. You know how it went, you know what every little action resulted in, you know because you have had time to think, a lot, and you mean a lot, of time to think. You think over it again, starting from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just more of me being dumb and writing RoseMary fanfictions. That's all I do besides DaveKat and angst


	2. Not The First Time

It started not with a big bang or anything too weird, but with you standing in the middle of your seemingly gigantic bedroom with your arms holding a too heavy violin, trying and failing to play it. You were, what, three? Just a kid, but already able to speak better than kids four times your age and able to take care of yourself better than kids five times your age. You had to, of course, who else was going to take care of you? Your mother? Of course not, what a ridiculous notion. However, she did give you meaningless gifts, such as this violin she got you on your third birthday. It was the best gift besides your laptop, in which you found your friends, but that’s for later.

The violin has been with you through thick and thin, and later in your life when you needed to, you used it to calm and distract yourself. But as a three year old, you found the instrument exceedingly frustrating, your arms tiring after a few minutes of holding it up, and every time you put the bow to the strings, the sound that came from it hurt your ears. After ten minutes, you grunted in frustration and as much as a weak three year old could, threw the violin onto your bed. It landed with a soft clack of the wooden instrument and the bow hitting each other. Huffing with effort, you stood glaring at it for a few minutes until you realized your stomach was hurting with a dull and numbing ache. Oh, right, when was the last time you ate? So maybe you weren’t the best at taking care of yourself in the remembering to eat department, or even having food to eat.

Grimacing, you turned and spent a few more minutes opening your door. Once it was open however, you padded down the hallway, feet silent, stomach rumbling. You had long since learned not to cry when you were hungry, because it was dumb to do something futile, so as you made your way to the kitchen, you kept your mouth shut firmly. It hurt a lot, not eating, and at that age, looking back now, you’re sure you were malnourished or something, actually, you’re surprised you didn’t just die. Arriving at the kitchen, you had looked around for your mother, and spotted her unmoving on the smallest living room couch. That being said, the smallest living room couch was still two times longer than she was tall. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a bar stool and started dragging it across the marble tile floor towards the fridge. As it made that disgusting, high pitched sound, you watched your mother, but she didn’t react.

Suddenly, you hit the fridge with your back, and walking around the stool, you pushed it flush against the left side of the fridge and opened the door on the right. You peered in and took note of the contents. A half empty jug of milk, almost full bottles of cheap beer -why she needed those you don’t know, she had a gigantic liquor cabinet and it was full with expensive alcohol-, several bruised oranges, and… is that… is that parsley? You stared at it before grabbing the oranges and parsley in one arm, and the milk in the other. It was a trial closing the door and then getting down with all that stuff, but you did it, and carefully put all of the stuff on the ground. Sitting with legs crossed, you examined your spoils. The milk was already curdled and smelled rank, so after screwing the lid on again quickly, you shoved it away from you. The oranges seemed edible, you weren’t really sure, because they were really mushy, but otherwise looked fine. However, the… parsley… well, you weren’t sure if you were supposed to eat it raw, but you had to eat something, and three oranges wasn’t going to cut it.

After you climbed up the stools to get onto the counter, you poured the milk down the sink and scoured the cabinets. They were similarly empty, except for the slightly disturbing amount of random spices, but managed to find a glass for some water. A few minutes later, and you were sitting across from your mother in the living room, book in lap, water in the space between your legs, and your measly food spoils from the kitchen to your left. You ate slowly, knowing if you ate too fast, even with the small amount of food you were about to consume, that things would end badly. The oranges weren’t too bad, and the parsley, while it tasted weird, was better than nothing. Occasionally you would look up from your book and stare at your mother.

Her eyes were closed, but you could imagine the piercing stare of her pale pink eyes burning into you. Her white lab coat covered her body till her knees, where her tanned legs peaked out from under mesh stockings. The high heels she always wore were still on her feet like usual, and her curly platinum blonde hair covered most of her face, except her eyelids and pursed, painted lips. You became increasingly uncomfortable, sitting here in front of her, but you refused to move and continued to read. After looking at her once more, you finally noticed the half empty vodka bottle surrounded by literally ten other empty vodka bottles. Narrowing your eyes, you finally closed your book, set the water on the ground, and then walked out of the room carrying the book. Once arriving in your room, you sat down angrily on your bed, punched one of your pillows, and then continued reading like you always did, ignoring the dull ache of your stomach.


End file.
